


Delirium and Decadence

by Dirtcore Dreams (NakedEye)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Fingering, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, But definitely not enemies to lovers, Come Eating, Come Shot, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Face-Fucking, Farting, Isolation, M/M, Marathon Sex, Not quite hate fucking, Post-Canon, Rimming, Scat, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Shit wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22446619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NakedEye/pseuds/Dirtcore%20Dreams
Summary: Harry's left alone for the holidays and all he wants is to just get by without having a total breakdown. When he finds out Draco's been left in the castle with him, he has to investigate, no matter the tension between them. What he finds is much darker, and yet more alluring than he ever could have expected.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	Delirium and Decadence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ALWDLM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALWDLM/gifts).



> Read your tags please! This fic absolutely goes there and if you don't wanna read that, then this isn't the piece for you. However if you do, welcome. Hope you enjoy. I've never written for the HP fandom so I hope this isn't too terrible. But what a statement on entry. :P

The castle was always so quiet during the break. For Harry that was the worst part. Over the years he’d gotten so used to the hustle of people around him. The other boys’ snores and rustling in the dorm. The frenzied steps of students racing up and down the stairs. The crackle of spells being practiced and the groan of doors shoved open, slammed shut.

That background noise had become so reassuring. In his subconscious it let him rest well knowing he was where he was always meant to be. No longer stifled beneath the stairs, wincing at every sound, sure they could mean nothing good was coming his way. His anxiety slowly ratcheted higher and higher as Hogwarts cleared out approaching the holidays.

It started as a low fuzz inside his body, something that set to make him itch. The discomfort was always minute enough that he didn’t realize it happening-- explained it away as having too little sleep, too much coffee. It was the psychological equivalent of having a tickle at the back of your throat. He could tell himself one thousand and one excuses, but knew it was probably the start of being sick.

From there he started to toss and turn at night, unsettled by the creeping lack of noise. It felt like cotton stuffed in his ears, like that heavy pressure of nothing. He started absentmindedly drumming his fingers against every flat surface, bouncing his feet beneath the table, chewing at his lips until they stung from the thin skin being split.

It earned him such piteous looks. He knew he was shit at hiding it. He grew slightly irritable, yet clingy. He knew he drug people into staying that little bit longer, made them feel slightly guilty for their excitement to head home. And selfishly he thought it was an adequate price for them to pay. He would be left alone all this time, would try not to consume himself with anxious ticks. They could spare a couple hours, a stomach slightly sick with apology.

He gathered up their strained smiles and overly effusive well wishes, squirreled them away with an animal sort of covetousness. In the coming days when he would lay on his bed and try to focus the churn of thoughts that ravaged his mind, he would remember them and try to reassure himself that he was missed, that he was being thought of just now. Someone, somewhere would wish they could share a family meal with him, would remind themselves to bring him a present from their parents.

He took little creature comforts in knowing that he would have this phantom limb Christmas once the year was new and everyone came back. He’d let the ghost of the holiday pass through him as he asked for retellings of everyone else’s time away, and start feeling warmed further and further through with each one. His heart would find a rhythm again and the blood would rush through his veins and he’d step through the fog that kept him grey all that time. 

Until then, it was all about management, it was about finding every life preserver he could and stacking them beneath him. It didn’t matter what they were, didn’t matter if he fed certain, ill-tempered beasts. Survival was what mattered most and there was no one there to witness the darker impulses besides. It started innocently enough-- eating with his emotions, lying in bed all day, flooding his brain with short bursts of serotonin like an addict-- jacking off and jacking off and jacking off until his cock was sore and balls dry.

He became something of a gremlin, something closer to that base animal nature at your core. It was all base instincts, even the less helpful ones. He wanted to nest. He wanted to fight. He wanted to fuck. He would take anything to distract him for the next few hours. Certain curiosities proved more fruitful than others though.

He’s not sure what line of thinking caused him to take out the Marauder’s Map. He wanted to say it was something as innocuous as boredom, or at least something less upsetting than paranoia. He wanted it to be as childish as enjoying watching the ink move. He feared it was his anxieties begging him to check for his own name, to make sure he wasn’t stuck in some alternate purgatory, long dead. The truth probably lied somewhere in between.

In any case, he’d been wistfully looking at the lack of names when he spotted one that had to be a fluke. Despite the map having proved its absolute certainty quite handily years before, it was still hard not to disbelieve. In fact, it was the last name Harry every thought he might idly spy, left alone with him in the castle.

Malfoy.

Harry would never trust him-- could never trust him-- and so of course he had to investigate. Whether to prove the map faulty or to confront Draco-- either would be worth sucking him out of the hole that he was digging for himself-- old habits died hard and being given a mystery was something he didn’t know he was missing. It gave him purpose, honed his focus. Having his mind reel with speculations and his nerves twitch with anticipation was like taking a hit.

He went over what he knew in his head as he made his way down to the Slytherin common rooms, skulking in the dark as though he might be found out, as though the possible presence of Draco meant any number of things could be true. What if there were even more people left here? What if he was in danger again? What if now, when his guard was down, was the perfect time to strike?

He’d spent many hours combing the halls, looking for ways to pass the time. Not once had he heard another person rustling around, seen the tell tale signs of someone else living in the castle with him. He hadn’t seen Malfoy visit the kitchens, the bathrooms, pass by on a travelling set of stairs. Despite the enormity of the school, it felt unfeasible for them to have not crossed paths. All the trails through the castle were winding, but they wove in on each other like a wicker basket.

So his movements were slow and his breath was quiet, thin by the time he’d arrived. It was cool down here, damp. Goosebumps sprouted across his skin and Harry wasn’t sure if it was from the temperature alone or if his adrenaline had contributed. Because now, he could hear something. It was muffled and soft, as though unbidden.

It could be ghosts having a quiet conversation. It could be an animal trying to hide. It ought to be Malfoy, but the more Harry thought about it the more alien it felt to him. His mind refused to put the puzzle pieces together that way. Even if they looked like they should fit, they would have to be forced together. He would have seen Draco, he would have heard about him being left on his own at the school. He _knows_ it.

And yet, the sound is coming from the dormitories, the boy’s no less. Harry pushed his lit wand into his sleeve as he approached the heavy wooden door that hid the truth, muting the light to a dull, suffused purple. He could hear breathing. It was erratic-- uneven. It hitched sharply, without rhyme or reason. Pained whimpers were cut off and there were…. wet sounds-- slow and labored, like a predator taking its time feasting.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up and his mouth went dry and his palms went so slick with sweat he had a hard time keeping grip of his wand. But he had to see, he had to know. Even if it was a horror, Harry was the sort of person that couldn’t close his eyes, no matter if he knew it would sear into his mind forever.

There was something almost electric about staring it down, about facing it head on and forcing yourself to internalize these naked things that caused others to flinch. It was, in a way, empowering. He was testing himself, as was his compulsion. He had to know the strength of his commitment, his sanity.

So Harry opened the door, slow enough to keep the hinges from creaking. What hit him first was not anything in his vision, but instead the smell. Suddenly that clammy air was humid and dank. A hot, dirty, cloying scent invaded his nostrils and stuck in the back of his throat, clinging like phlegm he couldn’t clear. It made his eyes water and he thought for a second that he might gag, but certain notes of it tickled his brain to inhale again, to investigate it further.

It was that instinct to poke at something with a stick, to go just that little bit further. Humans were curious to a fault and there was something primal about this terrible, tantalizing odor. The more he sat in it, the earthier it started to sit-- not freshly like dew or grass, but heavy. It was something like the mud that sucked your feet deeper, herd animals packed tight, tropical fruits almost unbearably pungent.

Harry’s stomach dropped out even as he rose his head to it, wafting it deeper into his nostrils. The sounds were sharper, though no less plush. The soft, wet squelches had a density that was almost decadent. The breaths were so flighty, almost tittering. And now there was the rustle of fabrics, the soft swishing of oh so aimlessly wrestling against cloth.

His eyes adjusted to the dark slowly. What lied in front of him came to like a photo slowly developing, filtering into his consciousness with plenty of grain. A body, lithe and pale. Slow, sensuous movement. A splatter of a mess that was ominous for the sheer fact that it couldn’t be made completely out at first. Dark stains seemed only to imply terrible things and Harry had to work hard to swallow around the lump in his throat.

Eventually Malfoy’s face cut into focus. Sharp, derisive nose. Lips poised to curl into a snarl. His thin, platinum hair-- only that most defining of features, the pristine of the pristine-- was muddied. Quite literally. Instead of hanging in silken curtains, the blond was clumped together in erratic bits. The shine was completely gone from it, dulled by some sort of material smeared throughout, matted to make a wild version of the prissy kid Harry knew.

Draco had a hand lifted to it, but made no move to try and disentangle the clumps, to smooth it out or slick it back. Indeed the way his fingers spread and then dug into his scalp seemed as though he were packing and then smearing it. Harry stood and stared, those same puzzle pieces floating in his head, only now he was trying desperately to press them together, to buckle them to fit so he could make any sense of this picture.

Eventually they gave, eventually the need to make it all perfectly fit with his preconceived notions finally snapped-- a thread with entirely too much tension. Shit. The dank smell. The dark stains. The wet sounds. Harry’s eyes roved over what he now acknowledged as Draco’s naked body coated in it. It clung to his fingers, which had haphazardly been run through his hair. It smeared down his belly and thighs, tinting his pale skin. And most of all it was caked at his crotch, completely matting down his pubes, leaving only a portion of his fully erect cock pushing out through the mound.

Like a child making sand castles, Draco seemed to have gathered it between his legs, pressed it to hold its shape. He rolled his hips to rock in and out of the slick, sticky hole he’d made for himself, fucking a little tunnel into his dung heap that produced slick, filthy sounds. Rivulets of cum in varying degrees of dryness had cut little channels down the sides, showing off just how much pleasure had been derived from this before now.

In fact, as Harry swept his gaze over the entire room, unable to settle in a single place for too long, more and more of that evidence began to pile up. Dirty, discarded dishes. Piles of books, idle games. There were stacks of refuse that could only be garnered by a person having lived their life compressed into a single space. He really hadn’t seen Malfoy anywhere out in the school, because Malfoy hadn’t left this spot. For anything.

Puddles of piss had dribbled off the sides of the beds, colored the dark cobblestone. Piles of shit had migrated all over his bed, his body. His hair, beyond the filth, hung heavy with grease, unwashed. He’d been living in what some might call a semblance of squalor, but which Harry could not logically call anything but a degenerate’s paradise.

For there was no misery despite the disgusting sprawl. Malfoy was languid with the way he rolled about in his muck-- in a state that looked more blissful than Harry had ever witnessed on the other boy. He sprawled out on his filthy sheets like a king upon his finest silks, played leisurely in his mess as though he had nowhere else he wanted to be. He was almost smug with it, high off the utter indulgence of what was happening.

And it made a certain kind of sense. He couldn’t have feasibly done something like this any other time, and it certainly was a decadence of some kind. Pure sloth, gluttony, lust, id. He’d thrown away any and all social conventions and lived in the blissful ignorance of a beast. He simply slept and shit and ate and fucked, expressing the basest of desires.

He was free from image or expectation or performance. He simply was. Harry stared into this nirvana, this oblivion before him and felt an answering pull. How would it be to let go like this? To let all those worries that had been wracking him all break long simply fly free? What if he gave in to the hedonistic desire to not be a complicated, tortured man for just a little while and fed the beast a human could be?

Draco made eye contact with him, finally noticing the change in atmosphere, but his eyes were still fogged with pleasure. He was so completely lost to it, not even getting caught could drag him from it now. He simply stared back as he continued to move, now with a seemingly renewed energy as he was watched. His hips moved faster, his cock head started to spit pre, his back arched more dramatically and his free hand slid down from his hair, drug along his neck, rubbed into his chest.

A fresh, filthy smear was left in the wake and Harry marveled at the tacky allure of it. His nipples felt tight and his cock strained at his clothes. He hadn’t stopped breathing the stench in from the first moment, brain constantly pinging him to investigate the scent like a dog. It was the same compulsion of sharing the scent of rotten food with friends, chasing down the source of a fart, scratching a crevice on your body grown swampy and having to press the tips of your fingers to your nose even if just for a second.

His feet moved before he even had the conscious idea that he was going to approach and then he was looming over Draco, chest heaving as he took his one time enemy in fully. They stared at one another until Malfoy was the first one to make a move. He stopped touching himself only to grab at Harry-- moving a hand from his own cock to grope at the tent in Harry’s pants.

He was rough and crude and Harry couldn’t help but buck into it, thrusting into the squeeze with an answering amount of uncoordinated roughness. They didn’t speak, that felt like it would break the spell-- the temporary cease fire between them. Instead they grunted, groaned, communicated more in implicit body language. Harry tore at his shirts to get them off, wand clattering to the ground and establishing a kind of mood lighting between them.

Draco yanked at his bottoms to rip them down and then splayed his hands all over the naked skin. Portions of them were slick, warm with mess, and others were tight where it had dried. Little flecks of shit clung to his body hair, leaving floating, clumped bits along his treasure trail, up into his chest hair. He let himself be sullied, christened. He leaned into the greedy groping like he was thrusting his cock through a glory hole.

He just wanted the sensation, the attention at first. He wanted to _be_ touched, _be_ pleasured, not to participate, reciprocate. Let his ass cheeks be kneaded at, spread. He stumbled forward when he was pulled and helped guide his cock into Malfoy’s waiting mouth. With a foot planted on the pillows, hands braced to hold him, he fucked Draco’s mouth roughly, chasing only his own pleasure. Strings of spittle swirled with the motion of his thrusts, dribbled down the uneven hang of his balls, splattered a mess on his inner thighs.

But it wasn’t enough. He clambered onto the bed, over Malfoy. His knees smushed into piles of shit. His soles soaked into piss. He’d swiped his hands through marbled messes of cum and sweat and wiped them off on his hips. Without asking for permission, he sat on Draco’s face, reached behind himself to grip that muddy hair, and yanked him into eating. Malfoy went happily, greedily even. He sucked and moaned and made out with Harry’s densely furred hole as though it were a mouth. His tongue was fat and swollen, lips red and hot. He kept trying to dig deeper and Harry encouraged it by sitting more and more of his weight back.

As it happened, Harry stared at the head of Malfoy’s slender cock, still just peeking out from the mud pie he’d been laying into. Strings of pre had made webby strands all over the head and clinging underneath the ridges cheese had set in. It must not have been washed in weeks, and Harry couldn’t stop thinking about how the tangy, funky scent of smegma must be buried under the dank blanket of dung.

He wanted to lean forward. He wanted to huff directly at the swollen glands. He wanted to taste. And so he did. Crawling down Draco’s long form, he let his chest drag in the gathered shit and planted himself in the middle of it, letting it squelch beneath him. He dug his hand through it to grip Malfoy’s cock from the shaft, tilted it to point straight at his face.

It was longer than his, much thinner. The head was so perfectly proportioned to the rest and he might have dared to call it pretty were it not flaked with rank smelling cheese. He moaned as he pressed it plainly against his lips at first, feeling the warm, tacky texture of the thin skin, then ran his nose along it like a cigar. He stopped just beneath the ridges, pushed at the gathered gunk with the tip before hovering his nostrils straight over the source. He inhaled and involuntarily ground his cock, hard and lewd into Draco’s sternum.

It smelled like boy’s locker rooms. Like poorly hidden cum rags. Like sweaty balls and unwashed feet and urinals cleaned much too infrequently. It stank of sex, male sex, machismo. It smelled like the most brutish version of masculinity there was and it made him want to fuck. It made him want to piss all over his territory, to shit in a display of dominance, to bathe in his own cum as a celebration of his horny virility.

He sucked Malfoy’s cock into his mouth, hooked his arms beneath his legs, hoisted them up so he could deepthroat the other boy and play with his filthy ass at the same time. Blond hairs had been stuck in place with thick, creamy shit. A once pink, prissy hole had been played with until it was loose and spongy. Harry easily sunk three fingers straight in and fished more, fresh mud from inside. Draco clenched around him, then bore down, ass muscles rippling as he farted wet and sloppy around the penetration.

They rolled in it. They pressed each other deeper and deeper in. Harry added to it, mixed the two of them, made a slurry of boy filth and slapped it between them. It was half a fight, half a desperate fuck, like they couldn’t decide between which at any given point in time. They grappled at each other’s necks until fingers turned white with effort. They grunted like animals. They sweat and flipped and threw their weight into each other until it was a miracle the bed didn’t collapse.

Harry came. He came so hard his vision whited out and his ears started ringing and he lost track of time for a few, long moments. It felt like it was being wrenched from him. Like it came from a place deeper than his balls. For once it actually felt like he was spraying some of his life force out onto the spread in front of him-- gushing thick and hot, over and over.

He couldn’t stop though. His dick didn’t soften. It ached, but it didn’t flag even momentarily. They went at it until his limbs gave out, until his eyes were falling half hooded. He’d lost count of how many times he’d rushed headlong over the edge, flailing his limbs and caring little for how far the fall. He could taste it. His head was filled with the scent until everything else was driven out. He felt in a carnal way as though this was always where he was supposed to be.

Draco grinned over him, looking wild with their wanton pleasures. “Potter,” he said it breathily, with a little awe in his voice, a little smugness. He bent down to lick at Harry’s mouth, broad and flat, until he was let in, more sucking than kissing. “Always had it in you.” They’d writhed like a pit of snakes.

Was that really it? Was this only him embracing that little piece of himself he’d smothered down so early on? All this just letting go of the need to hunker beneath the hat, begging, “Not Slytherin.” Or was it something more? Something completely all its own.

Just wondering made his heart race, but not in the way he enjoyed. So he pushed it away, better to think on later, in a less vulnerable space. For now he’d let Draco have the win, this little thing that he could hang onto when everything else in his world had crumbled away. It was a little gift, a thank you for inviting him to this horrible, wonderful place.

They had a couple more days before everyone else returned to the castle, and for once, he didn’t think he’d be counting the hours.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this kind of content or just my writing, come on and hang out with me over on twitter @DirtcoreD


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